The stars are so thick (in rivers and ways) they bend down to trouble your sleep.
Coyotes pick off the chickens one by one. Trees but not many: utility poles
but not many (and shorter than you know): instead of grass, rusting
random bits of Americana no larger than
a junkyard poodle

*

Listen carefully or not at all. The streets tell a history as thin as the pavement:
Saddle Sore Trail, Last Dollar Trail, Gunslinger Trail

Yes, the S-2, running somewhat north and south, reminds you that the stagecoach
went by – and the RV park (Stagecoach Trails) confirms it. Yes again, Ginny,
if you want to feel like Mark Twain saw the same desert views you’re
viewing. No harm, I suppose, but I’m pretty sure he took
the northern route

*

The morning I left for the coast the yellow eye of the sun quickly burned a hole
through the silver gelatin of fog. Before I left I once again looked for
the wandering troupe of hawks (Circo del Sol)

I found a small kettle in Mary’s backyard: a totem of six practicing “stacking.”
As soon as I unpacked my holster (Lumix FZ300) they scattered: one
on Mary’s roof, another one on a whirlybird vent (on Mary’s roof),
one on a C-band dish, and the rest disappearing one by one
into a small stand of pines with only the moon-dusty
mountains behind

– R L Swihart